Select this to read [the Whole Story].In 1969, I took a trip to Europe. A trip I had dreamed of for a long time. I looked forward to meeting people of other countries...Sweden (my relative's homeland), Denmark, France, Germany, et al. Frankly, I expected to meet friendly people...people who would be friendly to Americans. The fact that we were still heavily involved in the Vietnam conflict did not matter to me. Yes, I served in the military, however, I was not personally responsible for what was happening "across the pond". Nobody would hold that against me. Or would they?
After several hours in the air, I arrived at Kastrup Airport in Copenhagen. My first hint as to what was in store for me came when I went to retrieve my luggage. The baggage handler noted the American flag attached to the suitcase handle and, not knowing I was watching, spat on it. This was only one of several encounters I experienced with young Europeans. Please note, I said "young Europeans". Older people who remembered World War II were very friendly.
After two weeks visting several countries and experiencing the hate toward Americans, I was ready to go home. A trip I had dreamed of became a very depressing experience.
I hated Paris. I had planned on spending a few days there and, after two days, decided to return to Copenhagen to catch a flight home. I was on a pass supplied by Scandinavian Airlines, so all travel was in and out of Kastrup.
I arrived at Le Bourget airport about three hours before the departure of my flight. I wandered around the terminal to pass the time. I heard people singing and decided to investigate. I came across a group of young people sitting in a waiting area singing songs in a language I could not place. One had a guitar. The music sounded like American folk songs, but sung in another tongue. I stood nearby and listened to the group (about ten people) singing when one of them motioned for me to take a seat and join them. I did. They continued singing and talking in a language I still could not place. One of the young men began talking to me and I replied (mostly by sign language) that I could not understand. He thought for a minute and pulled out his passport. I understood his communication and I pulled out mine. We exchanged passports. When I saw the hammer and sickle and the "CCCP" on the cover of his passport, I knew immediately who I was with. I thought I was out of my mind to be sitting with a bunch of Soviets. If Europeans hated me, surely the Soviets would want to lynch me on the spot. I've got to get out of there...fast!
One of the Soviets did speak fairly good English. For the next 45 minutes, we compared our visit to Paris...The Louvre, Eiffel Tower, Le Etoile, etc. Several of the young people asked me many questions. One question I will never forget came from a young lady..."Do you know Laguna Beach?" (Laguna Beach is a seashore town in Southern California). I noted one oriental lady in the group holding an infant. I was told she was with their group and was from North Vietnam. As a matter-of-fact, several people in their group were from North Vietnam. I wound up holding the baby for a few minutes.
My new friends invited me to visit Moscow. They could arrange the visit. I told them I would like to do that in the future. As I was ready to leave, one person told me that it was enjoyable talking with me and sharing our experiences of Paris...even though our governments do not get along. Politics were never a part of our conversation. Nobody seemed to feel that they had to defend their government. We all seemed to be in a safe space.
I returned to my hotel in Copenhagen that evening and thought about my experience that day. I cried.
Select this to read [the Whole Story].
